


paid time off

by heartburn



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Creampie, Face-Sitting, M/M, Pre-Kerberos Mission, Recreational Drug Use, Trans Keith (Voltron)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-02-15
Updated: 2018-02-14
Packaged: 2019-03-18 19:08:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,915
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13687947
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/heartburn/pseuds/heartburn
Summary: Keith and Shiro have some interesting methods of unwinding.





	paid time off

**Author's Note:**

> DFAB terms used. FYI, I am a transman as well.

“You’re going to reek,” is Keith’s icebreaker. He doesn’t say it with disdain, or disgust.

Namely, he’s concerned. His lip bends in a frown. “Especially when you’re smoking in such a confined space.”

Shiro barely tilts his head, having to mind the blunt in his mouth. He takes it out with two fingers, eerily similar to how Keith holds his cigarettes.

Only, it’s smoke in an entirely different term. “Where did you even get marijuana on campus? Campus guards search  _everything_.”

“Marijuana – god, Keith, it’s just weed.” Albeit gently, Shiro tugs Keith to his desk by the wrist, three of his fingers clasping the entirety his bone. Perhaps if the air wasn’t so tense, Keith would chastise Shiro for sitting on the desk itself. “And you remember how we got your personal stuff through.”

“Sneaking after hours,” Shiro’s eyebrows raise. _Did I do that_? “And avoiding the monitor. Which, if I’m remembering right, took literal hours. You seriously did all that for weed?”

He looks away, thumbing an edge of the blunt with his thumb. “I’ve been stressed.”

It’s as far from the truth as he can get. Unless he means it; if he means that he defines stress as holing himself in his office for a fortnight, surviving entirely on microwavable kids meals, periodically exiting solely for the bathroom.

Matt had been overjoyed when Shiro left his office for more than ten minutes, which morphed into extreme worry upon realizing that it was a vanishing act of several hours. The record log’s update with the hoverbike’s return had made the two of them ecstatic, although it wasn’t as if Keith was checking it.

With slightly more sympathy in his tone, “We thought you took a personal day. We agreed that it was good to get you off the dormitories for a change.” Keith nears Shiro, even placing a hand on his thigh.

Despite himself, Shiro snorts. Thus, in Keith’s opinion, he entirely deserves the flick on his knee Keith gives him. “I guess it did clear my head, sure. It’s kind of been awhile since I’ve been out to the city.”

They share a sigh. Drug laws are slightly more lenient in the state, but they are on federal property.  Shiro is, well, a full-fledged adult. He’s Keith’s superior, not quite mentor but more of an established role model. Whom Keith happens to share his bed with, on occasion.

It’s not as though Shiro’s the first, nor the last, ranking officer to smoke. But if Iverson so much smells Shiro in the next hour, it’ll be both their asses; Keith sure as fuck isn’t leaving him stoned. 

Aware he’s stating the obvious, but Keith says it anyway. “You’re going to have to exercise to get it out of your system.”

“Mhm,” Shiro attempts at a flex of his leg, which just happens to cross over Keith’s. “Maybe you can bench me.”

“I had another idea,” Keith mumbles, alarmingly close to Shiro’s ear; when had he turned his head in? However faint, there’s the sensation of fabric against fabric, from Keith’s enclosed leg rubbing circles atop of Shiro’s groin. 

A growl in the back of Shiro’s and Keith reflextively hits the floor, with some shuffling so that his head meets the top of the desk.

He removes his hand from Shiro’s thigh to work on the clasps; muscle memory, at this point, as Shiro’s pants are overturned after his knee in seconds.

“Boxers, too?” Rather than answering verbally, Shiro rocks his hips so that stiff fabric rolls against his face. Through half-lidded eyes, more out of arousal than irritation, he mouths against the bulge. “Going to take that as a yes.”

Two fingers curl on the inside to pull his underwear sideways. Much to Shiro’s frustration, Keith has a tendency to slow after half-nudity. He’s the teasing sort of type, evident in his soft caresses of Shiro’s inner thigh. Shamelessly, Shiro rolls again, but Keith’s learned his lesson given that he’s leaned back.

Toying. And when Shiro puts his own hand down to discard his boxers, Keith lightly snaps at his wrist and lightly licks at the skin beneath his hand.

“I’m going to unwind you,” he grumbles against his fingers. “Just give me time.”

“Patience yields focus has come back to haunt me.” Keith looks up with him, smug humanized; _don’t you think?_ He kisses him on the thigh, a flick of his tongue that makes Shiro shivers. But _still_.

“You’re a tease,” Shiro gasps.

Warmth, not entirely from the drug settling in, wraps itself from Shiro’s stomach to his groin. His body feels as though done up in knots, from both stress and the intense sexual angst Keith is giving him. Thankfully, Keith finally decides Shiro’s had enough of his due punishment and tugs the remaining portion of his boxers down.

When he springs free, there’s no hesitation from Shiro. Keith’s face pinks, but he doesn’t quell in his actions.

What is a surprise, though: rather than using his hands to get him off, they go to Shiro’s hips. Nails bite into the flesh before Shiro can say anything. _Your mouth? Already?_

It’s not his mouth. Instead, Keith rubs the side of his head to Shiro’s tip. He grinds, letting it throb against his jawline.

Shiro gets the idea, now.

As much as Shiro is _jutting_ forward, Keith is _pushing_ forward. Neither of them go particularly fast, from the roll of Shiro’s hips or from Keith nuzzling his face close, both being pleased enough with the friction of Shiro’s cock at Keith’s cheek.

But when Shiro cracks an eye open and shoots a look downward, “Oh, God,” he gasps, because even when hardly stiff, his dick is almost the size of Keith’s face. Shiro is barely ashamed when he feels the blood hurriedly swirl further down at his realization.

But Keith looks bothered, probably at Shiro’s sudden lack of color, and almost draws away. He’s only stopped when Shiro shoots his left arm out to desperately grab at the end of Keith’s hair. Keith settles back, although he’s not as relaxed as he was a second ago.

“It’s okay,” Shiro says as he uncurls his fist. “I, sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you.”

“Tug at my hair again,” is… not what Shiro was expecting, but he’ll take it.

“You sure?”

Keith nods with no hesitation. “Warn me next time, but it felt really good.”

So he does, even twisting fine strands of hair over his knuckles. Keith keens, as though his knees would be buckling without abandon if they weren’t already on the floor.

With an impatient motion of his right hand, Shiro drags the head of his cock across Keith’s bottom lip. Momentarily, Keith just bats his eyelashes and _looks_ at the precum dribbling onto his chin. When Shiro tightens his grip on the back of Keith’s hair to draw him in, Keith’s eyes brighten with realization.

Initially, Keith barely licks at the one of the veins on the underside. As the top of Keith’s lip teases Shiro’s head with its hot breath, Shiro shudders. Shiro doesn’t realize he’s kind of thrusting his hips into Keith’s mouth until Keith gives a small, pathetic noise.

“I’ll give you what you want,” Shiro murmurs and leans close. “What you need.”

By his hand, he guides the first few inches in. Deliberately slow so that he doesn’t choke Keith… and that Keith starts to get wetter from the denial. Keith is somewhat exasperated, though, and he tries to get the full length in.

It’s like he’s torturing himself, pulling out of the wet heat. It’s a taste of Keith’s own medicine, but at what cost?

“ _C’mon_ ,” Keith growls, voice a bit raw. “Fuck me already.”

“Not with that mouth of yours. I’m not going to lay with a dirty thing,” Shiro chastises. From the shine in Keith’s eyes, though, it has the opposite of the intended effect.

It happens in the span of a couple seconds. Agility was never an issue for Keith, so in the blink of an eye Keith’s moved from his position on the floor to climb onto Shiro. It starts as him pawing at Shiro’s chest, and Shiro’s mistake is to believe it’s as innocent as that. His now free-hand falls limp to Keith’s side, feeling useless when he’s not touching Keith.

With the push of a shoulder, Keith presses Shiro’s back onto the desk. If not for the reality that one of Shiro’s hands could cup the entirety of Keith’s face, it’d be intimidating.

“If you won’t fuck my mouth,” out of the corner of his eye Shiro sees that Keith has started to claw at the belt of his own pants, “then I’m going to fuck yours.”

“After all, you’re so clean,” Keith continues, well aware that he’s just short-circuited the man beneath him for the foreseeable future. “The top dog of the whole facility. You’re right; you could never touch something dirty.” He follows that with a jerk of his hips, grinding against the tough meat of Shiro’s leg.

For Keith, it’s perfect timing. At the edge of Shiro’s skull, there are the tendrils of a light fog. A pleasant, warm haze creeps into in Shiro’s vision, leaving the undressing Keith a mere cloud in the distance as he throws his head back to clear it.

“Woah, hey. Stay with me.” His voice registers before the light shake does, despite happening simultaneously in real time. “You in there, Shiro?”

“Green,” he says, or more like lisps, tongue unexpectedly weighty. “I’m fine. Just, the pot hit.”

“You gonna be okay?” Shiro bobs his head, smiling in return when Keith grins. “Alright. Two taps on the thigh if it’s too much. I’ll go slow ‘til you’re up to speed.”

“You’re the best,” Shiro sighs. Keith flashes him a knowing smile before returning to his pants, tugging them off with one hand before he’s kicking them to the floor. Yet he doesn’t remove his boyshorts immediately.

No, albeit with a shy blush on his face, Keith wiggles his hips in mid-air. Keith’s other hand, splayed across Shiro’s lower half, squeezes delicately when Shiro hardens fully at the sight. When he makes eye contact with Shiro, Keith drags his hips closer, so that Shiro can see the wet patch at the bottom.

“Giving me a show?” His chest rumbles in laughter, but the motion of skin against fabric turns it into a whine instead. If he were to remove his shirt and there were burns, Shiro would hardly be surprised.

Keith drops onto both hands, balancing himself carefully as he makes quick work of Shiro’s buttons. “Not fair,” Shiro tries to say, somewhat muffled by Keith messily kissing the side of his mouth. Once Keith’s annoying assault is over, he half scolds, half whines, “You’re almost fully dressed.”

“Seriously want friction right now?” By how quickly he shakes his head, Shiro gives himself whiplash. “That’s what I thought.”

“How am I going to eat you out if you’re still dressed?” Although Keith’s head is buried in Shiro’s chest, given he’s still working at the buttons, Shiro knows that he’s rolling his eyes.

“You put your groin in my face,” Keith points out. “You didn’t hear me complaining.”

“Because it was _nice_.” As he guides Shiro’s arm out of his sleeve, Keith snorts loudly. “This is cruel.”

“Think of it this way. You’re not going to be so mouthy once I’m on top of you.” Suddenly, all of Shiro’s nerves flare alight – not entirely from the weed.

Finally, Shiro’s damned shirt is off of him; disinterestedly Keith kicks it to the ground by the heel of his foot. In his haze, Shiro can’t clearly remember, but he sure hopes that during his moping episode he bothered to vacuum in here at least once.

By Keith’s fingers snapping at his waistband, he wasn’t being entirely honest earlier. He has to shake out of them if he’s going to stay on Shiro’s body, which. Of course. It’s quick, but hardly fast enough for Shiro; when the fabric has sunk to below Keith’s knees, Shiro grinds against the bare curve of Keith’s ass.

The groan makes it worth it. Including the light hit on his shoulder. Lips spread in a shit-eating grin, Shiro coos, “Show me more and I won’t lose control.”

“You come on my underwear and you’re paying for it. All of my stipend goes into savings.”

And all of Shiro’s stipend goes to ramen; he doesn’t have the expenses to be a sugar daddy too. Keith knows this, the bastard.

Keith’s shorts join the clothing puddle at the floor. If Shiro were to guess, they already have a stench  of both drugs and other illicit activities. But if they’re going to get caught, it better be in the moment: he digs his hands into Keith’s hide, earning him a pleased yelp.

“Making yourself useful?” One of Keith’s eyebrows is raised.

“Mm. Ride me.”

“Oh, no, you’re not getting off the hook that easy,” Shiro bites his lip, trembling from nerves and excitement, “I’m probably going to leave claw marks on your desk.”

Not exactly a picture-perfect opening to Keith sitting on Shiro’s face. But there it is, with his hands dug into the furthest edges of the desk and a leg grappling for balance on the underneath. From the strained expression on Keith’s face, one would assume Shiro was fucking Keith, not the other way around.

He barely moves, as promised. His hips shake and Shiro buries a little further into the table, the legs giving a warning groan. Despite his better judgment, Shiro gives hot puff of air to Keith’s folds. Neither Keith nor the desk is happy about this.

His fingers burrow on Keith’s skin, letting the man drive upwards as Shiro says, “Two taps to stop from you as well.”

Shiro’s practically blind; it’s hard to see anything asides from the expanse of Keith’s cunt. Keith has to hum his satisfied smile. “Or I’ll just start screaming the word red.”

“Okay, that works,” and Shiro’s hands relent lightly. It’s a small drop, thank god, before the two of them are off – Keith rocking down to his mouth, Shiro’s tongue lapping at space between his damp folds. From the complaint of Shiro’s neck, it’s an awkward angle, the rhythm off kilter and disjointed.

Together, they move to fit as one; above, Keith whole body shuffling and Shiro testing how wide his desk actually is. There’s a faint _click_ in Shiro’s mind when they match, when they’re not fighting against the movements of the other but working with it.

Also, Keith starts gasping little _ah_ s. That might have been a signal that it was working.

“Harder,” he grunts, sounding like his teeth are against his lip. Trying to be quiet, even now. “Further, fuck, just be good –”

Not one to be forgotten, Shiro’s cock harshly ruts at empty air in the spaces of his breath ghosting at his cunt. Something’s dribbling, from the heat of Keith to the slit of Shiro’s dick.

“Don’t leave me hanging,” he mouths at a slice of Keith’s skin.

Honestly, Shiro was not prepared for Keith to growl. His response – the content murmur of arousal is hardly bothered, at least. “Who says you’re allowed to be touched? Hell, you’re not supposed to be touching me.”

“Mm,” and for that, Shiro’s hands push in the same moment to squeeze Keith’s thighs together. Shiro’s pleased at the noise of surprise, but moreso at the groans when the ease of access lets him tongue-fuck him harder, rolling in his sensitive heat. The table is being scratched at, by god, Keith having to dig his nails in to stay steady outside of Shiro’s hands.

Oxygen, unfortunately, is a necessity; after amusing himself for a good number of seconds, but still in great pain, Shiro lifts Keith upwards and relaxes his grip. More sweat has started at the base of Keith’s forehead, a dull sheen as his bangs stick to his face.

“Jerk,” he mumbles, his heart not in the words. His face scrunches in response to Shiro’s messy-sounding air kisses. “Hurry it up.”

In Shiro’s defense  – “I’m just trying to treat my baby right,” – but as the haze fades away into pleasantness and warmth, another idea comes to mind, a better idea.

Something else to say, when his fingers claw back in and bring Keith upwards, numerous measures too high for him to touch. Keith’s shocked complaints fall on deaf ears, as Shiro rearranges his body so that his hips fall on Shiro’s chest, whereas his head is bent over his shoulder, over the table.

“Shiro, what the fuck.”

Certainly easier this way, despite the weight of Keith’s bone-and-muscle legs half-heartedly flailing for purchase on Shiro’s lap. Shiro hums and the vibration is against his folds; Keith quakes and Shiro has to stop himself from cheering _bingo_.

“Did you forget who was in charge,” is the next best thing he can say. Keith makes an attempt, really he does, to grab at Shiro’s shoulder but that earns him a nip at the inner thigh. “Hey, you said it yourself. You can’t touch me, you’re filthy.”  

While Keith would never admit it, Shiro has a front seat to seeing him quickly _drip_. “Then what am I going to do?”

With little interest, Shiro grumbles, “Get your own blunt? I’m busy here.”

“You are no– _ah_! Shiro!”

Entirely self-satisfied, Shiro tries not to let Keith feel the smirk on his face. 


End file.
